


The Knife Goes Chop Chop Chop

by haku23



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8681293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haku23/pseuds/haku23
Summary: Billy and Faraday play five finger fillet while Goodnight has PTSD related feelings in the background.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I saw that video of the chick playing the knife game while singing the song and I immediately thought of Billy....A few of the characters say nothing because I don't really feel comfortable writing them yet but they're there except for Sam who is probably sleeping like a responsible adult and not trying to get his fingers cut off. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd because I live on the edge, but if you see any spelling mistakes please let me know! Words in Italics are Goody speaking French because I reckon by now we all know cher=dear.

“I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t,” Faraday says, smile just on the side of smug that will light that vengeful little streak in Billy into a vengeful streak a mile wide.

 

Goodnight leans back in his chair and slings his arm around the back of Billy’s as much to calm himself as his partner. Doesn’t work. Rarely does.

 

“Well now, I do believe that is the sound of a man about to lose five dollars, gentlemen,” he says and nods to Emma, “and lady.”

 

“You gotta say that, being his manager and all. Come on, one of you has gotta bet on me,” Faraday glances around the room, his gaze lighting upon everyone around the table with his hands out like a beggar. Considering the circumstances, not an unfair comparison. None from their group appears keen on ponying up the cash, or at least throwing it in against Billy.

 

Vasquez snorts and tips his drink against his lips before he speaks, “In a knife competition, with you against the guy who carries the knives. Not a chance.”

 

“Now, now, let’s not count our multi-talented friend out just yet,” Goodnight smiles wide, looks around the saloon and spots a few willing, albeit stupid, fellows making their way over. They slam their cash down on the table with enough words to communicate their “allegiances” as it were, then take to standing just outside their circle, watching. After that a few more men join the pot; Goodnight piles the money in his hat, as per the usual, and does a cursory count with only slightly shaking hands.

 

“I do believe we have reached the 25 dollar mark. Any further takers? Going once. Twice.”

 

He pulls at the collar of his shirt, the press of bodies around them suddenly too warm. He imagines he can hear the rush of their blood in their veins and clears his throat, “then, let us, as they say in the player world, get this show on the road.”

 

Billy shifts forward and stretches his hands out in front of him then retrieves one of his knifes from his belt with a flourish. He turns to Goodnight and looks his face up and down; his frown deepens, but he does nothing.

 

“You start,” he tosses the knife to Faraday hilt first, at not even a quarter of his usual speed. The boy complains anyhow, but doesn’t make to call the competition off.

 

Sweat prickles at his back as Faraday splays his fingers across the surface of the table and aims the tip of the knife downwards. His pace stays steady, but slow; Billy leans back and mutters “easy 25 dollars” into his ear.

 

“You are a cocky sumbitch, Billy Rocks,” he murmurs back, ignoring the gaunt faces that stare at him from the back of the crowd. Men long since dead, come for his soul, or his sanity or both; he has yet to get a good answer out of them.

 

Billy hums in agreement, leans forward against to take his turn. The spread of his fingers is smaller, the margin for error too; but he slams the knife between them at the pace set by Faraday then slides it back across the table.

 

“Okay, warm up’s over.”

 

He stares at Billy for a minute, maybe longer, out of the corner of his eye as his face appears to morph into another and then back again. He pulls at his collar again.

 

Vasquez laughs, loudly, “You keep telling yourself that.”

 

“No one asked you.”

 

“You know I’d much prefer if you all kept your fingers,” Emma says, arms crossed over her chest. 

 

Despite the newer, faster pace Billy keeps narrowing the space between his fingers. Any wrong movement will have him cutting them straight off, but then he’s sliding the knife across the table again.

 

Faraday’s next speed makes Goodnight's stomach drop-for Faraday.

 

“Keep it up, you’ll be a couple fingers short,” Billy says, the first words that he’s voiced since the whole thing started, delivered in the usual deadpan reserved for the public.

 

“Oh yeah? Do. Not. Under. Estimate. Me,” Faraday grins, his eyes unblinking and each word punctuated by the slam of the knife. The knife scrapes along the tabletop amidst murmurs of the crowd, not all of the comments particularly suited for mixed company. The silent men in the back row’s gaze burns into his forehead. He swipes at it with his handkerchief. Billy eyes him once again, nods.

 

He taps out the rhythm of Faraday’s turn at first and glances to his opponent, who nods his agreement that it’d been accurate. The knife hits the table with five quick, successive thwacks but he doesn’t stop there. He taps out a new rhythm, faster, slams the knife down between his fingers. Doesn’t stop there. Goodnight’s heart pounds as though trying to match his pace. The sound is like gunfire. Blood seeps from the foreheads of the grey faced back row. Goodnight yanks at his collar.

 

With a final slam Billy embeds the knife into the table and sits back. Faraday laughs, “come on, you think I can’t do that?”

 

“I think that’s quite enough, Mr. Faraday,” Emma turns to him, then Billy, “Mr. Rocks. Unless you have forgotten I hired you all with the intention of saving our town.”

 

“All due respect, Mrs. Cullen-“ Faraday starts with the air of a child just deprived of his favourite toy. She wheels back around and he puts up his hands, “you are more than right.”

 

“Then, I think what we have on our hands is a good old fashioned draw, gents.”

 

The saloon might have erupted into a veritable maelstrom, but he calms it with the help of the return of money, and without help from Vasquez saying “think we all know who won”. He gets it all returned, including Faraday’s wager, and excuses himself with a tip of his hat.

 

Billy of course follows at his heels without a word or hat tip to be found. He lights up a cigarette as they ascend the stairs, together for all that they try to be more discreet on a typical night. Not much use when they share a room, but Faraday keeps the crowd occupied with some sort of card trick anyway.

 

The heat on the back of his neck lessens only slightly when they step into their room and close the door, but enough to keep his breathing level. Billy hands him the cigarette and unbuttons his vest before his own despite Goodnight’s attempts to bat his hands away. Half of his body remains turned towards the door.

 

“Waiting for him to scream when he tries the knife thing again,” he explains, grins and sets his knifebelt on the farther bed that they are not likely to use any time soon.

 

He exhales a laugh and passes the cigarette back to him before sitting on the bed to pull off his boots, “you seem awful sure of that.”

 

“I know his type.”

 

“And what’s that?”

 

“Cocky,” Billy says and breathes out the smoke, “obnoxious.”

 

“Billy, you keep complimenting the man and I’m liable to get jealous.”

 

He passes back the cigarette, “better?”

 

“Getting there, _dear_.” The faces start to fade from his mind, but he keeps his eyes from travelling towards the window. He gets up and checks the lock on the door. It holds, and his shoulders unhitch themselves from around his ears.

 

“Shouldn’t have started it with him.”

 

“On account of me, or on account of you not wanting to be responsible for that poor boy cutting his own fingers off?”

 

“It can be both.”

 

He always marvels at the change between Billy in public and him behind closed doors; not unlike himself he supposes.  He makes his way back to the bed and sinks further into it than before, Billy joins him a minute later stripped down to just his pants.

 

“This whole place really is going to hell in the proverbial hand basket , isn’t it?” he asks, nearly laughing at the revelation. Rose Creek will either get wiped off the map or they will; no two ways about it. Goodnight can spot a sinking ship with reasonable accuracy and this place, this place has got all the familiar symptoms.

 

Billy lights another cigarette, “maybe not.”

 

“An optimist all of a sudden, _dear_?”

 

“I’ve got you,” he turns, one hand on Goodnight’s clothed thigh while the other pushes the cigarette into his parted lips, “and one of us has got to be.”

 

“Suppose you’re right about that,” he takes a long drag and drops backwards, “must be why I brought you along.”

 

“Yeah, no other reason but that.”

 

“Oh now you’re wanting an inventory of your merits,” his breath leaves him with a soft “oof” when Billy lies back against him and very nearly crushes his chest.

 

“Alphabetised.”

 

They laugh, and Goodnight spends a few silent moments attempting to arrange the list into an acrostic poem but gives up when he belatedly realises that none of the words start with Y. Billy stares at the ceiling with half closed eyes and Goodnight quiets the urge to check his pulse, but only because his chest still moves up and down with each slow breath.

 

“You awake?” Billy asks quietly after some amount of time he cannot even begin to count.

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

He plucks the cigarette dangling from his lips, “go to sleep.”

 

The voice downstairs quiet, and the ones in his head for once do not rush up to fill the silence. He sighs, contented for the moment, “Don’t think I can move anyhow.”

 

Billy seems of a similar predicament because he remains with his head pillowed on Goodnight’s chest. He at least puts out the remains of the cigarette then flops backwards again. His eyes close just as Faraday hollers obscenities along with something that sounds suspiciously close to the word “fingers” downstairs. They laugh, and Billy says “told him so.”

 

He wraps an arm around him, and murmurs, “That you did, _love_.”

Sleep comes easy tonight, and Faraday, well, Faraday requires less stitches than Billy predicted.

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoyed the change in Billy when they were alone you know in the belltower, so I wanted to write him as less stoic than usual since he's alone with Goody and all and I mean also he's high af. Might add another chapter with them actually kissing or something but no promises!
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr if you want to talk Mag7, my name is haku23 there as well!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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